Pot Kettle Black
by Ebony10
Summary: Jane learns some things. A continuation of chapter 10 of 30SoR. Could possibly be read separately, but would probably make more sense if you read the other chapter.


By vote, this is a short related to the Red Raspberries chapter of 30SoR. Not a continuous time-line, simply related to it. Enjoy! This will probably be the last related to those drabbles—unless, of course, inspiration strikes. I can't seem to resist inspiration—must be a distant relative to Simon Baker, whom (?) I also cannot resist. ; ) Also, is 'tsked' a word? lol, let's just pretend it is, shall we?

This turned out much longer and more serious than I expected. Sorry!!

Don't own them, obviously.

**Pot. Kettle. Black.**

From his position leaning back on the couch, Jane analyzed the slant of Lisbon's shoulders as she slumped back against her chair behind her desk. For all of his pretty words and invasive insight, there was only one (simple) way to describe Lisbon's mood.

She was sad.

He hadn't quite figured out why. And he wasn't quite sure what he was going to do about it, if anything. Knowing her, she just wanted to be alone, wanted to draw her privacy around her like a cloak that would keep the bad things away. After watching her for another moment in the dark and deserted CBI building, Jane sat up resolutely. He just couldn't sit here, watching her self-isolation. So it was either go in there and be with her or go home. And he wasn't in the mood to be home, alone in that empty house.

So it looked like Lisbon would just have to put up with him. Good thing everyone else had left so that if things turned ugly, no one would be there to give Lisbon an excuse to run off without him being able to chase her. Hmm, it seemed lately that he was doing a lot of the chasing. Unusual for him. Normally, he didn't invest himself so much.

However, now was not the time to let his thoughts stray into that arena. He quietly maneuvered around the office bullpen and stealthily slipped into her office. Still unnoticed, he gingerly sat in the chair across from her desk. He noted that her eyes were closed, yet he knew that she was not sleeping. He took a moment to take in her appearance. Tired, slight darkness under her eyes (probably worse than they looked as he suspected she used makeup to disguise her fatigue), and pale skin. Once more he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her.

Curious.

He didn't particularly welcome it, nor did he feel the need to deny it tonight. Somehow, seeing her without her barriers made him want to abandon his—just for tonight, just once. Minutes passed and yet his gaze remained intent, almost as if he were memorizing her.

"Done staring, Jane?"

He was glad her eyes were still shut. He couldn't restrain the way his body jumped slightly at her words. While he had known she wasn't sleeping, he hadn't expected her to be aware of his presence in her office. When she opened her eyes, he had already schooled his features to be impassive, normal.

"The diagnosis?" Her tone was rather sarcastic. He didn't answer immediately.

"Nothing," he finally replied. She lifted a cynical brow.

"Really? Nothing? You're not going to try to divine an event in my life by simply looking at my face?" The tone had gentled a bit and she was shifting in her chair, rolling her neck to try to relieve the tight muscles. Jane fought the urge to step behind her and use his hands to aid her.

"I don't know the event. Nor do I need to." Her eyes met his once more as she leaned forward, putting her elbows on her desk. "You're sad."

He could tell she held back a gasp. Admirable. She was getting a better at hiding her feelings, but still not from him. Never from him. At least, so he hoped. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Wrong. I'm not sad."

He didn't smile. She realized that he hadn't since she had opened her eyes. It was funny how such a little detail could give an exchange meaning. It wasn't often that he didn't smile—even in his more serious moments, he usually had a self-deprecating smile that illustrated his self-loathing. She wondered why she was analyzing the presence of his smile. Or lack thereof.

Man, she really needed to get a life. _Outside_ of work. She was brought back from her musings by his next words.

"You'd like to tell yourself, tell me, that I'm wrong, but we both know that's not true." Rather than being mocking, his voice was gentle and soothing. Too gentle and soothing.

"Thanks, Jane, but I—that...you don't need to do that." She didn't insult his intelligence by stipulating what 'that' was. She didn't need to be gentled like an upset animal, didn't need his 'talents' to surface in a need to cheer her up. And she knew that was what he was trying—she had seen him do it too many times with possible witnesses. Even she had noticed that it wasn't so much the words, but the tone that instilled calm inside of them. "In fact, I don't _want_ you to do it."

He nodded, which surprised her. Why had he decided to listen to her wants now? There was silence for another moment before she started shuffling papers to one side of her desk. While her hands were occupied with busy work, she spoke to him. "It's late. You should be at home."

The side of his mouth kicked up in a faint version of his smirk. Somehow that made her feel a bit better, a bit more normal. "Pot. Kettle. Black."

That startled a tired smile out of her. "Touche."

He didn't ask her why she was sad, didn't try to force her to talk, and she was grateful. He simply raised both eyebrows at her in a silent inquiry. She didn't know what he was asking until he stood and left her office. Intrigued, knowing he wanted her to follow, she trailed in his wake. Her soft smile came out once more when she realized their destination. Of course.

The couch.

He sat on it and rested his feet on a short table in front of it, clearly placed there for that specific reason. After standing next to the couch for a moment, Lisbon mirrored his movements. She wasn't sure if it was a good idea or a bad one, for the moment her body sank into the cushions she felt exhaustion creep into her bones once more. Her sigh was almost inaudible as she tipped her head back, looking up at the drab ceiling.

Jane could sense the weariness that assaulted her body the very moment she sat down at his side. Feeling a bit helpless, he glanced over at her only to find her attention focused above them. Though the building was directly in her line of sight, he had the feeling that she was seeing something far different. A thought hit him and he stood. His movement made her turn her head and zero in on him. Before she could ask, he answered. "I'll be right back."

As he walked away from her, she rolled her eyes. Why did she even bother to ask questions? Or, really, even think them. He did that so often now. It was normally highly annoying, but she found she was too tired to even be annoyed at Jane. Wiggling about on the couch, she found a more comfortable spot closer to the arm of the furniture piece. She heard the rasp of thick paper against the leather couch followed by a whoosh as it fell to the floor. Opening her eyes, she searched for what she knew had fallen out of her suit coat pocket. She located it directly in front of a pair of worn (Jane would say well-loved) brown shoes.

Before she could reach forward to take it and put it back into its chamber (her pocket), Jane stooped and picked it up, looking at it with interest. He handed it back to her and sat down.

"Cute kid. Your niece?"

She stowed it out of sight. "No."

"Didn't think she looked like you, but you never know how the gene pool is going to work out, do you?" Jane smiled, feeling more like his normal self, trying to find footing in this situation, a way to _do something_. "God daughter then?"

"No, Jane." Lisbon's head fell against the back off the couch once more. "Victim's daughter from a previous case—before your time. She's just been diagnosed with cancer."

Jane was stunned into silence for once. "Um, Lisbon?"

Her eyes closed tiredly, knowing what was coming. "Yes, Jane?"

"I thought you weren't supposed to become emotionally involved with the victims or witnesses."

"You're not."

She didn't elaborate and he was too hesitant for once to push her. A moment passed, but he couldn't seem to relax. It wasn't like him.

When she started speaking, it was low and quiet. "At first, I felt sympathetic to them. She had lost her mother. Her father was so depressed it was hard for him to see that his daughter needed someone."

"I don't usually become involved, as you know. It goes against our professional policies. This time, though, recommending some good help just didn't seem to cut it. I pushed—something I'd never done before and will never do again. I was lucky that it worked that time. Her father straightened out, has been great for her ever since. He sends me updates sometimes."

She fell quiet again. Jane smiled tenderly, watching her distant expression. He was glad she couldn't see him watching her, but he knew she felt it. He was struck with how amazing Lisbon was. How she always managed to surprise him, to somehow act out of character while remaining perfectly in character. He leaned back on the couch next to her, perhaps sitting closer than needed, letting the fabric of his pants brush lightly against her leg. She didn't react, made no movement to move either away or closer.

"And you've never contacted them, right? You've never visited her again," he guessed. He didn't need her verbal affirmation to know that he was right. "It's okay to care, you know."

Her eyes opened as her head turned to him. "Of course it is, Jane. Do you honestly think that any of our team would be here, would be the agents we are, if we didn't care?"

The gentle smile faded from his mouth, but stayed in his eyes. "I know you all care. I'm just saying it's okay to show it."

She surprised him by laughing lightly and then turning his words back on him. "Pot. Kettle. Black."

He grinned, happy to hear both her laughter and banter. Her head dropped back against the couch. He leaned forward to snag the container he had brought back off the table. Lisbon hadn't noticed it—another indication of how exhausted she must be. He opened it, the Tupperware making a slight popping noise as the top separated from the bottom.

She wasn't a CBI agent for nothing. Her nostrils flared slightly and one eye cracked open. "Is that raspberries?"

He grinned cheekily. "Yup. And, if you're nice, I may be persuaded to share."

Both eyes opened and then narrowed on him. "If you broke into my stash, I will shoot you."

"Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon." He tsked at her. "Violence is not the answer. Besides, I have too much self-preservation to mess with your raspberries. Your chocolate maybe, but not these. This is the emergency stash I keep for you. Your stash is out, in case you hadn't noticed."

Now that she thought about it, she realized he was right. She was out. Refusing to acknowledge that she found it kind of sweet that he kept an emergency stash for her, she zeroed in on another one of his sentences. "That was you? You ate my chocolate bunny at Easter?"

Ignoring her dangerous tone, he smirked and nodded, popping a raspberry into his mouth. She looked forlornly at the Tupperware of berries. To fry his ass for daring to touch her chocolate or to play nice and get her favorite pick me up?

Tough choice. Really.

She had really wanted that chocolate bunny.

He ate another raspberry and she caved, reaching into the container for her own. He smiled smugly. "I knew you'd see it my way. You should really learn to share."

She shot him a glare. "I could still shoot you and take the container."

"But you wouldn't. Too much paperwork," he quipped. She chose to ignore him (really, he created enough paperwork as it was) and focus on the taste in her mouth. She savored it, closing her eyes and remembering her last day off. She had cuddled up on her couch with a newly released book. She remembered the lovely relaxed feeling of being entranced by a fictional story. She loved to read, but hardly ever got the chance. Unlike Cho, she couldn't bring a book on the job. Her work was never-ending. If there wasn't a case, there was always more paperwork or evaluations. Reading allowed her to get into a story without having to really think about it or work it out. She had enough of trying to figure out a story's ending at work.

She bet Jane loved trying to guess the endings of books. She bet he made it into a game. Yet another difference between them.

"What are you thinking of?"

Jane had watched her face relax as she chewed and swallowed. He was always amazed at the effect this fruit had on her. He couldn't help but to finally give in to his curiosity. She jerked a little, startled out of her reverie. He found that he was almost jealous of the fruit—taking her thoughts far away, distancing her from him. She cast him a considering look.

"Just a memory," she replied. She paused, wondering if she should give up her little game. After all, Jane had already discovered her secret about raspberries. It rather surprised her that she wanted to share it with him. "It's silly, really."

His look made her feel as if she could tell him that she stood on her head wearing socks on her hands and he wouldn't find it odd. Probably another one of his acquired skills—making a person feel rational and normal. She figured he couldn't turn it off so she didn't let it get to her, but she wondered what he was really thinking.

"I'm thinking you can tell me."

She sighed, wondering not for the first time if he really had used that one trick as mind calibration that would allow him access to her thoughts. Which, of course, was ridiculous. He'd be the first to point out that psychics don't exist. Unless the opposite worked in his favor. What a smart-ass.

"I like to remember good things whenever I eat a raspberry. I don't know why. I've always loved the taste of them and it just seems to make me happier to associate good memories with them. I can't explain it right aloud," she finished, a little frustrated at her inability to articulate a response. He offered her the container again.

"I understand," he said quietly. And she thought that maybe, just maybe, he actually did.

They sat on the couch, eating raspberries, sometimes in a companionable silence, sometimes with a quiet conversation. But always comfortable. When she fell asleep after the fruit was gone, Jane sat there, thinking about what he had learned about her that night.

She couldn't help but care about people, but she tried to fight it or at the very least hide it. He wondered how often it hurt her and how often they (the team) missed it. He was sure now that she was better than he thought at hiding things from him. And knowing her ritual with the raspberries had only heightened his fascination. It seemed he couldn't resist knowing what made her look like that—soft and happy, lost in a world of her making. He discovered that he had the urge to join her in that world. Dangerous. He was walking a tightrope. High risk, calling for stability and balance. He knew from past experiences that he had a hard time resisting high risk situations. His balance was quite good and he was working on the stability thing. Still, he firmly told himself that he had to ignore the tempting idea of joining Lisbon. It surprised him because he had never had to assert control over his desires since his family had been killed. His expression was serious as he gazed at her face.

He reached out and gently rubbed his thumb against the side of her mouth, where there was a bit of raspberry juice. He was careful not to wake her. Her skin was soft and he was abruptly reminded of her femininity. A jolt went through his insides and stirred warmth in his stomach. His hand lingered before pulling away.

Maybe he had learned some things about himself tonight, too.


End file.
